


Lions in Cages

by 0pposing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Comfort Sex, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Internet, John's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, Mary is dead, Moriarty is Alive, Post Reichenbach, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Scars, Sexual Content, Social Anxiety, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unrequited Love, Victor Trevor Being An Asshole, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0pposing/pseuds/0pposing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has social anxiety and a little help from his friend. </p><p>"You. It's always you, John Watson. You keep me right."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are secrets in which Sherlock Holmes has not yet dispersed to John Watson. The cavernous walls of his honeycomb mind palace are etched with scars that burn with every flashback. And these descriptions of these memories are far too distinct for Sherlock to delve into them often. And these etchings become carvings, and these carvings become 10 inch thick holes seared into his brain. But yet he won't tell John Watson. His blogger, his doctor, his crime fighting companion. The fall, the return, the bullet. And even after Mary had committed an act so devious and bound breaking, John had taken her back to Sherlock's utter and complete disappointment. And even that disappointment was etched into another section of his brain, most likely labeled, "Caring is not an Advantage." Holes upon holes upon holes upon caverns of sheer disappointment and heartbreak. And these holes are his secrets, these ho-

"Tea?" John Watson stumbles in, hanging his raincoat up and slipping out of his shoes only using his toes.

Sherlock only gives a grunt in reply, sniffling, rubbing his red tinted nose and then returning to pick at his nails. John nods in return and shuffles to the kitchen, his socks upon the carpet bringing comfort to Sherlock's bitter cold ears.

"You look like you've caught a cold." John exclaims and grins in his direction.

"I don't get colds. Never have." Sherlock mumbles back, flipping through newspaper pages with excruciatingly long fingers. He manages to not get a paper cut and he's not even stopping to read or skim through the pages. John looks at him, furrows his brows and then brings him his cuppa.

"Interesting, yeah? I read that this morning and I love-"

"Hmm." Sherlock answers only with this, halting John mid sentence. John stares, shrugs his shoulder and sets the tea down on the small wooden table next to Sherlock's seat.  
  
"I would say this is a good mood," he pauses, stifling a smile, "but you don't have many of those and I shouldn't ruin it. Not my place to ask why either."  
  
Sherlock ruffles the newspaper and closes it, eyeing John with one eyebrow raised and his knuckles turning white with the ferocity in which he is clenching the recycled material newspaper. "Why do you inquire this is a good mood? There doesn't appear to be any indifference as to what I'm usually like." Sherlock finishes this question almost like a question and it shocks John.  
  
"Well, I'm not sure. For once, you're not jumping around looking for your cigarettes, which mind you, I have tactfully hidden in a place you'll never find them." John smirks, obviously proud of himself.  
  
"Your pants drawer." Sherlock smirks back.  
  
"Ho-," he laughs nervously and looks towards the door. "I shouldn't even ask. I can never hide anything from you."  
  
"You should also clear your internet history."  
  
John glares, his fingers forming into fists and clenching his seat. Setting his cup down and smiling angrily, he stands up, walks to his room and is back within 5 minutes. He's brought his computer.  
  
"Do you see this Sherlock? This is mine. Not yours. I purchased this. With my money. Once again, " John licks his lips, "not yours."  
  
Sherlock stares again, looking somewhat hurt. This was completely out of ordinary. Yes, he supposed that John sometimes minded him using him things, but if he did, he never said anything. But now of all times, when he had proposed Sherlock was in a good mood, John had decided to get deliberately mad at Sherlock for doing something as little as borrowing his computer for normal reasons. Recent searches of any poisonous plants being distributed in the nearby London areas. Sherlock laughed slightly and shook his head, looking at his feet.  
  
"I apologize. I should have asked your permission." He looks back at John, and widens his eyes sympathetically, looking dejected and torn between apologizing again or returning to his usual cold ghastly stare. He chooses the second choice and averts John's gaze and covers his face once again with the almost torn newspaper.   
  
"You can't hide, Sherlock" John exclaimed, setting the computer down and marching over to the distraught and angered detective. Yanking the newspaper down, he smiled smugly at Sherlock and tore the newspaper up in front of him. "You may be able to go up here, " He points to his head, "but I'm not going to let you. You can't hide from your feelings Sherlock. You just, you can't. It's not right." He licks his lips again and shakes his head in a disappointing fashion. He looks at Sherlock dejectedly and turns his head sideways, pursing his lips. His fingers find their way fumbling through Sherlock's curly mop swaying against his forehead. His fingers slide through, taking off in the back and Sherlock's curls cascade back into his face. He doesn't know why he did it, but he did. John's feelings of safety and comfort and everything else lovable wove their way into his heart like a badly knitted sweater. He took a step back and swore quietly at himself.  
  
"Sorry." he murmured. Sherlock stared back, his eyes empty of any complete emotion. He was capable of hiding his emotions, obviously, but inside, his heart fought with his brain. He missed the warmth from John's hand on his body.  
  
"Don't be. I.. don't mind." He looked at the floor and cleared his throat, standing up and now towering over John as he made his way to the discarded laptop. "Although, I do need your laptop again. Lestrade gave me a case earlier, barely a 5. But it does require additional research on distributions of certain plants." Sherlock was now back into detective mode.  
  
"Oh? What kind of plants?" John inquired.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and typed steadily on John's computer. "John, that's exactly what I'm trying to find out."  
  
John stifled a chuckle and retreated to the couch to sit next to Sherlock. He peered at the screen, his eyes scanning for any important information he might skim across and could be somewhat useful to Sherlock. This is what they did. Sherlock took control, John sat with him, attempting to help. He sometimes very greatly assisted Sherlock in certain cases, his sentiment shining through and bringing light onto things the detective would never have noticed due to his ignorance of human emotion.  
  
"Stop breathing so loud."  
  
"I'm not.. Sherlock, I'm just breathing normally." John furrows his brow in utter confusion. He shakes his head, scoots a couple of inches away from Sherlock and continues his scanning on the screen. "Sherlock, can I ask you.. something?"  
  
"You're going to ask anyways."

John smirks at this and hangs his head. "Well yeah." He smiles softly, reassuringly. "Why do you do.. this?" He gestures at Sherlock with his hands, flicking his fingers at the computer.  
  
Sherlock cocks his head, furrowing his brows in what looks like beginning anger. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean? I'm only researching on-"  
  
John stops him in the middle of his sentence by pressing a hand to those perfectly shaped pink lips. "No. No, Sherlock, not that. I'm talking about.. this. You're in such a good mood until I get home and then it's like you're angry at everything. I get you want your solitude and if me being here is.. disrupting your state of mind, then let me know and I can leave."   
  
Sherlocks heart stops at this and he has to stop himself from standing up in rage and fleeing the room. "No." There's emotion in his voice, his words are quivering. He clears his throat. "I don't think.. that would be good. The Work. For The Work." Water begins to break through the bottom lid and he bites his lip, drawing blood in attempt to stop the tears. There's turmoil inside of him, a clash between his want for the lonely and his need for love. And John brings him just that. He brings him the love and caring and John is one great big ball of light in Sherlock's ash filled life. And he needs that.

John opens his mouth to speak and stops, seeing the reddening eyes. "Oh. Oh, geez Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't know. Oh, fuck." He buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. Sherlock.." He looks back up and cups Sherlocks head with his fingers. "I'll stay. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Jesus. I'll stay for The Work." These words come out of his mouth in an attempt to make Sherlock feel better, but what he really means is that he's staying for Sherlock. Not The Work. He'd never leave Sherlock. Not after Sherlock left him.

XXX  
  
It's three days later and there's tension. So much tension you could cut it with a knife and serve it on a platter. And the two grown men can feel it and they bask in it like it's some sort of sauna. Sherlock takes it as a gift. Time to think. John takes it as a cold shoulder, which hands down is negative thinking. But all in all, nothing has changed. They serve each other tea, look at case files together, watch crap telly with Sherlock almost uncomfortably close to John on the couch.  
  
One particular night, during a rather dull episode of Top Gear, Sherlock strode in, robe over his bare shoulders. He plopped himself down next to John, their thighs touching. The heat radiated off of the lanky man and John exhaled silently, rolling his eyes and trying to scoot away without Sherlock noticing him.  
  
"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked, picking at his cubicles. John swore he almost saw the oh so familiar twitch of his lips forming at the corners. He scowled and pouted.  
  
"No. Perfectly fine." He replied back, biting his tongue. And for 20 minutes more or so, they sat there in complete silence, not even looking at each other but it began to grow on them. John's tense shoulders slumped and his head lolled back, his eyes shutting slowly. Before he drifts off, he gets to thinking. Thinking about the events of a couple nights ago. His thoughts whirl and whirl and whirl until he can feel a hand come to rest at his leg.

"You've a question." Sherlock says solemnly and shifts his eyes to look at the doctor.

"I do." he replies back, sitting up straight and resting his elbows on his knees.  


"Well, spit it out then. I don't have all night." Sherlock tries to contain the quirk of his lips and looks at John's feet. His toes are tapping rapidly on the carpet and Sherlock knows this is an anxiety thing. John only does it when he's nervous, which concludes what the question could possibly be about. Only a general area has opened up to Sherlock in his mind palace on the identification of the question. But he can't come close to what it is. John's face is hard to read at the moment. His thoughts are interrupted by a scoff.  
  
"Well.. you don't seem very interested in knowing. But I'll ask you anyways.." He takes a deep sigh. "The.. the other night when we were.. fighting, whatever you want to call it, I mentioned leaving and you seemed to get.. pretty upset about the idea of me moving out." Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, no doubt something snarky, but John stops it with the press of his finger to his lips. "Shut up. If you're going to speak, try not to be an arrogant git."  
  
Sherlock swallows thickly and brushes imaginary lint off of his robe and takes a breath. "Why do you need to know? Eventually you're going to leave anyways. Everyone does." He snaps even though John has warned him to not do so. Sherlock breathes again. And apologizes for once. "Sorry. I didn't.. mean that. About you, I mean." 

John is staring at him from his spot on the couch. His toes have stopped fidgeting. "It's.. fine." He finally spurts out as if the words rolling off are poison. "Listen, if you're going to be an arse about a simple question, we can talk about this another night." He stands up to leave but a cold hand has stopped him in his tracks. It wraps around his wrist as if ivy was growing from his sleeve and the grasp tightens. "I'll tell you." Sherlock utters out, trying to cover up the stutter that fell from his lips. "But.. I need you to be awfully quiet for me while I do so." His hand lets go and slides away from John's warmth. The doctor looks towards the stairs leading to his bedroom, then back at the couch. He makes his decision, plopping down on the couch next to Sherlock and facing him. He pulls his legs up into criss cross position, leaning on his hand.  
  
"Alright. Shoot."  
  
"Do you know the name Victor Trevor?"  
  
"No. Am I supposed to?"  
  
"Good. And no. I-it's good you don't." Sherlock raises an eyebrow and continues to speak. "In Uni, we were friends. If that's what you want to call it. Friends. Yes. And I did his papers for him everyday. He would.. repay me with certain sexual favors such as oral. We never had anything other than that. Anyways, we grew closer over the years becoming I guess what boring people would call.. boyfriend and boyfriend." He almost retches after the words come out of his mouth. John giggles at this. "Paper after paper I did. Essay after essay. Even letting him copy my final. But that's where it gets interesting. Before finals, I'd made it clear that he needed to at least change a select few of his answers to not make it so obvious he was cheating. And he didn't. He got the same grade as me and the professor knew it. We were both kicked out of that class and Victor was livid. I mean _absolutely_ livid. We entered our dorms and he began to hit me. Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch. Headbutt. Punch. punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punc-" Hands are on his head and they're soft but rough. Soft. Rough. _Punch punch punch kick._ He hits the hands away and flies backwards on the couch. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock it's just me." Hands are grabbing his wrists and holding them down. _Punch kick punch push. there's a bed a soft bed a big bed and there's the sound of zipping and pushing and grunts and there's a heavy weight on him._

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's just me. Look at me!" _look at me you fucking piece of shit. entrance. it hurts and it burns and it is_ **stretching.** and there are so many tears, a puddles worth stained onto the bed sheet  
  
A needle is being pushed into his skin and it hurts and it stings but it's okay because it's John and John wouldn't hurt him.  
  
"Shh.. sh sh... sleep." A hand is on his face and it's soft. It's warming and it's everything it should be.

_thrust thrust burning and screaming and crying and it's not over because it'll never be over and the seed is planted already and the seed is dripping out of him. there's something with it and he can barely smell a faint iron_

_blood there's blood and he knows there's blood  
  
  
_ "It's okay, I'm here. It's me." _not victor trevor john watson doctor john watson john hamish watson_

_"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes." Trevors voice carries out through the door and upwards into the waterfall of Sherlock's brain. It's there to stay._

* * *

End Ch. 1

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, my therapist told me not to rush my writing or it might not come out as good as it could be. In my perspective, I don't think it's as good as some of your guys' writing but I hope you enjoy!

The bed sheets were soft, softer than usual and Sherlock inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of the room he was. Chemicals. Lemons. _No_ , not lemons. Lemon cleanser. Clorox? Window Cleaner? _Both_. The air was chillingly cold and it bit at his skin like little gnats. His eyes wouldn't open. He wouldn't let them.

It was a hospital, of all things. Sherlock groaned and slammed his head back further into the starch pillows behind him.

"You're awake." There was a voice and it was none other then John's. "How are you feeling?" He asks.

"Mmmfine." Sherlock manages to mumble out and licks his lips. His eyes are still closed but he knows where John is. The left side of him, a chair pulled up and his head had been resting on the hospital bed all night as Sherlock slumbered. Sherlock licks his lips again and runs along the cracks with his tongue. "Water." he demands of his blogger and John is up in a matter of seconds rushing to get him water. The small paper cup is brought to his lips and Sherlocks hand rests on Johns as he drinks the cold liquid. It slides down his throat and is chillingly pleasant. It's a cascade of ice and the detective runs the remaining water of his lips in an attempt to soothe them.  
  
"You know that won't work." John retorts and Sherlock hears him fumbling in his pockets looking for lip balm. "Here." He thrusts to Sherlock a small cylinder but no effort is made to grab it.  
  
"You do it. I can't open my eyes."  
  
John is up again and almost kneeling in front of Sherlock, parting open his lips with his index finger. A soft gel is being run over his lips with two of John's fingers and the hair on Sherlock's arm stands up at the intimate contact. Once John is done, he leaves his finger there for a second and Sherlock has to clench the bedsheets in his attempt to not lick it.  
  
"So, how are you?" John is once again gone and sitting in his chair, hands intertwined and elbows placed on his knees. Doctor mode, Sherlock concludes. "You had.. quite a, uh, episode back there." He gestures towards the door with his thumb but he means at their flat. "Care to explain what _exactly_ happened?" John raises his eyebrows. No doubt he's concerned of course. He was always the one concerned. Not even Mycroft found the time to come to the hospital yet. It was always John. His John. With the stress wrinkles and the greying hair and his posture in cozily knitted jumpers in which he always pranced about the flat in. And here he was, same jumpers, yet his posture was stiff and the stress lines much more defined to Sherlock's utter discontent. And it was all his fault.  
  
"I'm fine. And no. I don't wish to discuss this. Now if you'll be so kind, I need to get myself updated on the plant case. Laptop?" Sherlock put his hand out flat, as if expecting the computer to land on his hand immediately. Sighing as if something treacherous had just occurred, he opened one eye, raising the same eyebrow and rolling it. "Well if you won't get it, I guess i'll just have to check myself out." He began to throw back the covers, swinging his feet to the side but a hand pushed down softly and assured him that he was not going to leave this bed.  
  
" _No_. No, you're going to tell me what happened. You're going to explain it right now. And you will not leave until you do." John had raised his eyebrows, waiting for Sherlock's understanding.   
  
Sherlock bit down on his lip in order to stop the sarcastic retort that was slowly crawling its way out of his throat. "Why is it so important that you comprehend what happened? It's basic understanding John. You're a doctor for God's sake, can't you recognize an anxiety attack when you see it?" He spat the words out like venom and shut the one eye that was open. It was hard. It was hard for him to speak about that day, about what happened to him and his only way to rid himself of the fear of it happening again was to ignore it. He ignored every memory, every person with the same name 'Victor', and that scare with John leaving.. that was hard. If John was gone, no one could protect him from Victor. No one would be there to make it stop. Sherlock would be breached again and the flood would pour in.   
  
"I am not a sentimental man, John. No, I don't think I am. I am a walking machine, a full fledged sociopath. With gratuitous amounts of energy and adrenaline, yet one day I predict I will die. I will die in combat, I think. And if I do not, I want you to kill me."  
  
John looks at Sherlock, eyebrows raised and his mouth agape. "I don't, I don't understand where this is coming from. Or leading for that matter."  
  
"I need you to not leave. I need you to continue your life with me and live in the flat because, John Watson, I have never been a sentimental man. But I am. I am for you and I cannot understand any of it. When I had my anxiety attack, you were there. I heard you and I saw you and I felt you. You were physically and mentally with me. And what would happen if you were not?"  
  
"Listen, Sherlock, if I had never asked you why you didn't want me to leave, you wouldn't be lying in this hospital bed anyways. It's my fault." He holds his head in his hands. "I just.. I'm sor-"  
  
"Don't you _dare_ have pity on me. Don't. You. **_D_ _are_**." Sherlock clenches his teeth and turns his head away from John. "I just need you to do what I asked of you. Understand?"  
  
"...Understand, Sherlock." John stands up and pats Sherlock on his blanket covered knee before nodding, pursing his lips and turning around to leave. "And.. Sherlock?"  
  
There is no reply.  
  
"I won't leave."  
  
There are footsteps shuffling out the door and Sherlock has finally opened his eyes, looking towards the open door as a nurse comes in.

"Well, Goodmorning Mr. Holmes! And how are you feeling?" She asks, her lips parting and revealing bleached and whitened teeth. She sets down a small paper cup filled with white and yellow pills. "We're going to be taking you off of Morphine for now, and replacing it with painkillers. How's that sound?"  
  
"Tedious." He replies.  
  
She laughs a hearty laugh and refills his water cup. "Good, good." She leaves the room as quick as she came in. Sherlock's eyes wander towards the cup and his hand fumbles on the side of the bed for the remote. Raising himself up, he sighs and grabs the pills, putting them all in his mouth and downing them with the water.  
  
He sits there, 30 minutes more, delving into his mind palace and organizing John's room. The room is brightly lit red and there are two lamps in opposite corners. The other half of the room is dark. The other half is the half he's yet to discover. A bed sits in the middle and it matches the matte paint on the walls. One side of the blanket is pulled back, and the other is neatly made. Sherlock sits in a chair in front of the bed, staring at it as if he's waiting for it to move. His eyes flicker back and forth between the darkened corners until he stops, staring at the middle of the bed again. There's a shadow standing there and it's staring right back at Sherlock. It takes the shape of the man but Sherlock knows it is no man, it is only Victor Trevor and he is invading John Watson's room. And he won't leave  
  
XXX  
  
"They're discharging me today."  
  
"Are they?" Mycroft looks up from his newspaper and sneers. "We'll see about that. I'm sure the doctors will be fine with it, but don't make assumptions."  
  
"Oh, Mycroft please. You know my condition is perfectly fine and I'm well suited enough to be discharged."  
  
"I don't think your doctor approves."  
  
"My doctor..?" Sherlock squints and scoffs. "My doctor is the one who will be pushing me through to- Oh." His realization dawns on him and he licks his lip, avoiding Mycroft's gaze. "That doctor."  
  
"Yes, Sherlock. That one. I've spoken to him and he very well does not believe you should leave. After all, he does think he is the who pushed you to this tantrum."  
  
"Even if it is true, it's not as big of a deal as you all are making it out to be. I mean, how many people have anxiety attacks a day? I'm certainly not the only one in the world."   
  
Mycroft stops talking and has buried his face back behind the black and white piece of paper.  
  
"Oh, Mycroft, don't be such a drama queen." Sherlock snickers and is looking out the window now, his mind far from Mycroft's princess manner.  
  
"Can I ask you something?" Sherlock continues and is now playing with his thumbs. He does this when he's nervous, but he's taken notice that no one seems to know he does it. They aren't looking at his hands, they're looking at his face which is usually so ridden of emotion. Not his hands.  
  
"You may." Mycroft has thrown the paper onto the floor dramatically with a sigh. He crosses his legs like he does when he's ready for a long tedious conversation with someone whom he believes is far less intelligent. But this is no unintelligent man, for this is his baby brother. Mycroft has taken care of him since he was but a wee lad. When Sherlock had ran home from a day at school, Mycroft asked why. And Sherlock just asked him a question. "Myco, why do people hate me?" he wondered before looking down at the ground and kicking small rocks with his shoe.  
  
"Because you're better than them." He answered. "You're smarter, you're faster, you're much wittier, and you're just.. better, Sherlock." He ran a hand through Sherlock's greased tousled hair before leaning down to his ear. "They know nothing." He smiled. And that had made Sherlock laugh and strut with pride as he marched off to school the next day.  
  
  
"Do you think John is angry with me?" Sherlock asks and Mycroft is back into modern day. "For not telling him about the past and such. I would assume he has no reason to be."  
  
Mycroft purses his lips and stands up, stretching his legs. "Well brother dear, it depends on John himself. It's his decision to be angry or not. It's especially ridiculous considering it is your own personal life." Mycroft stops talking and takes out a pocket watch, looking at the time. "Seems I have to go." And with that, the elder Holmes brother is out the door and Sherlock is left alone again.  
  
XXX  
  
Sherlock picked at the vomit looking food on the hospital tray before gagging and swallowing down at least the glass of water. It wasn't food, but it was enough to quench 10% of his hunger for a substantial amount of time before John would come back with actual food. If he came back. As soon as he was getting ready to nap again, the door opened his doctor walked in. Not _his_ doctor, but his doctor.  
  
"Mr. Holmes. Feeling ready to go home?" He smiles and Sherlock notices his teeth are crooked, unlike the too perfect nurse that was in here before.  
  
"As ever." He replies and looks down to where John had laid out some clothes the night before. He was not going to be here to see Sherlock leave.  
  
XXX  
  
Nothing could stop Sherlock from dreading to walk into his flat. It was empty, it smelled like a rotten experiment and Mrs. Hudson was already smothering him by the time he stepped foot into the door. There was no time to flee to his room, to shut the door and rid himself of unwanted and unnecessary long hugs and big smooches on the cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you're okay! Y'know, I was really worried about you." She bit the inside of her lip and a concerned look appeared on her face. "I know John was too. He called to make sure everything was locked up." Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"He did?"

"Oh yes! Whenever you're in trouble he calls it seems. Wants to make sure everything is ready for you when you come home. Well, I guess if it's you come home." She tries to joke and gets no laugh out of the stone faced detective.

The elderly woman shuffles off in the other direction to start a pot of tea. "So how was your visit to the hospital?"

"Boring." he answers and sits down in his chair, drumming his fingertips on the armrest. Mrs. Hudson has exited the room. "Boring without my John. I want my John." He mumbles and hangs his head. He cannot let Victor Trevor in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S I didn't tag 'Rape/Noncon' for specific purposes, so if that bothers any of you, don't read the upcoming chapter.


End file.
